“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride; I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.” Neruda

Here, there were pockets full of happiness. Pockets of laughter, light and dancing. The aroma of good food, of sweetness rising. Here, there were pockets of frustration. Pockets full of I don’t knows, of tears, of narrowed eyes and hard words. Here there were pockets full of uncertainty, of knowing for sure, of love, of anger, of joy, of honesty, of figuring out.

Here, these pockets of these five were full of life.

She told me she wanted photos of them all together. As a unit. They were camera shy. The last family photo they had was years ago with a cell phone.

I’ll just hang out with you, I told her. You just do your Saturday and I’ll attend. Bake your cookies, build your forts, fight over which pillow is going to work best to support the heaviest blanket. Feed the babe. And don’t forget to tell me your story. I love to hear people’s stories.

Here is their story, in the pockets of these photos.

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